At length Jagger raised his head and met his father’s gaze. His own face was white and weary-looking; there were lines on the brow that looked in that feeble light like ink-smudges, and there were similar shadows at the corners of the mouth.
He had received the communication and all his father’s comments in absolute silence and now that he spoke his voice was hard and resolute.
“You’ll have heard, maybe, that ’Zekiel’s little lad died this afternoon. They came down soon after you went across to Albert’s, and I went back with ’em. They want to bury on Wednesday, so I’ll stay up and be getting on with the job.”
“I’ll bide wi’ you, lad,” said the father. “I’ve done naught this last three days”; but Jagger shook his head.
“Nay, get you to bed. I shall lose no sleep and you would. I’ve got something else to coffin beside Billy.”
“Well, happen you’ll be better by yourself. But when you’ve nailed your trouble up, lad, put it out o’ sight, and don’t let its ghost walk about wi’ you. There’s two ways of dealing wi’ trouble—you can either lie down and let it crush t’ sperrit out of you, or you can climb on t’ top of it and get an uplift.”
Jagger looked steadily into his father’s eyes.
“That’s so,” he said firmly. “I’ve got to put my back into this business now and make it move, and, by gen, I will.”